


Girl Of Her Dreams

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haunted by recurring nightmares of a young woman called Victoria Waterfield, Zoë decides to build a time machine and track her down. As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the unconventionalcourtship romance-novel ficathon, based on the summary for prompt 14 ('The Ninefold Key' by Rebecca Brandewyn). It started out so close to canon I couldn't resist.
>
>> A Dream…
>> 
>> [Zoë Heriot] has been haunted for years by a recurring dream about a beautiful young woman and a dark, forbidding castle. But when her nightmare begins to come true, [Zoë] is caught up in a dangerous intrigue that began over two hundred years before she was born. 
>> 
>> A Quest…
>> 
>> [Victoria Waterfield] barely escaped with her life after her father was murdered and her home burned to the ground. She must discover what lies behind these devastating events – even if it places her own life in jeopardy! 
>> 
>> A Ninefold Key…
>> 
>> Zoë and Victoria are fated to meet and to fall passionately in love. But will their search for the ninefold key unlock the deadly secrets of their past – or utterly destroy them both?  
> 

_The Dalek's lights flared. "NAME!"_

_"Victoria Waterfield!" the girl on the balcony sobbed._

_From the hall below, Zoë Heriot stared helplessly up at the scene. She was standing beside Jamie and Kemel, but they weren't aware of her. She was a ghost, unable to affect events, a fly in a web of mental projection._

_But maybe there was something she **could** do. With a supreme effort, she forced one finger into a succession of tiny movements._

"Dream diary," Zoë dictated later that morning to her handheld computer. "Entry thirty-two. As previously, young woman under interrogation by a cyborg of unknown type." She leaned forward, excitement creeping into what had, until then, been delivered with scientific impartiality. "I set the tablet to record motion and went to bed holding it. When I saw the girl, I tried to write her name. Motion tracking meant my hand movements were recorded. I can pass information out of my dreams. I've got a name." 

She paused the recording and looked down at the motion tracking app. The movements of her finger had been jerky and erratic, but the resulting trail was just about legible. 

"'Victoria Waterfield,'" Zoë read, and restarted the recording. "Subject name is assumed to be Victoria Waterfield. I shall research her when possible." 

She stopped the recording, gulped down a couple of caffeine cubes in lieu of breakfast, and set off for the space station's laboratory areas. In theory her mind was entirely on her day's work; in practice, it was far more concerned with a blue-eyed, timid-looking, chestnut-haired beauty, her clothes those of two centuries ago, who'd been haunting her dreams for months. 

⁂

"Who's that?" Daenerys — Danny to her co-workers, and the closest approximation Zoë had to a friend — asked, looking over Zoë's shoulder at the sketch on her workstation display. 

Zoë jumped. "Sorry," she said. "Just a bit of private research." 

"It's not your ten percent time," Danny said, shaking her head. "You'll get in trouble if Sandra sees you." She gave the image another look. "Who is she, anyway?" 

"I..." Zoë hesitated, then took the plunge. "I saw her in a dream." 

"The girl of your dreams?" Danny patted Zoë on the shoulder. "You really need to get laid." 

Zoë swung round in her chair. "That's really helpful advice," she snapped. "Do you know how many times people have said that? Of course, when they say it they think they've done all the hard work and left the easy bit up to me. There are only eighteen people on this station, none of them are interested in me, so where am I going to find a date? Or were you offering?" 

"Sorry." Danny backed away slightly. "I didn't mean..." 

"No, I'm sorry." Zoë's annoyance was already subsiding. "I just get so tired of people giving me useless advice about my personal life. Anyway, back to work." 

She minimised her sketch and forced herself back to her normal work for the next hour or so. If, at the same time, software agents were scouring the Solar System's information sources for information on Victoria Waterfield, that was nobody's business but hers. 

⁂

Some weeks later, Zoë's "family history" project had become something of a running joke at the station. From just the name, Zoë had been able to find places, dates, a scanned copy of a birth entry in a parish register. Danny had even joined in, managing to unearth a newspaper article about the disastrous fire that had swept through Victoria Waterfield's house when she had been sixteen, presumed to have killed her and her father. Reading it had sent Zoë into a black depression that had lasted for some days — about a girl she'd never met and never would! Her mood had only lifted when she'd come across another little cluster of references to Victoria — or another woman of the same name — a hundred years later. 

The coincidence, if coincidence it was, had put certain notions into Zoë's head. Following a line of reasoning she'd kept very quiet from everybody else on the station, she'd also been performing a few private experiments in her quarters. With time, she was sure, she'd know everything there was to know about Victoria. And then, perhaps, the dreams might stop. 

She didn't get the time, though. 

⁂

The door chime was still sounding. Still drowsy, Zoë climbed out of her sleep pod and crossed to the control panel. A small screen showed the image of Danny; Zoë pressed the OPEN button. 

"Just thought you ought to know," Danny said, without preliminary. "Sandra's having a surprise inspection of our rooms this morning." 

Zoë rubbed her eyes. "If it's a surprise how do you know about it?" 

"I heard her talking on the hypercomm. Did you know Jason's been building a time machine in his room?" 

"He's been _what?_ " 

"I know. He'll be fired without references for sure. You'd have to be mad to do something like that, wouldn't you?" Danny glanced around Zoë's tidy quarters. "Doesn't look like you've got anything to worry about. Sorry I woke you." 

"That's all right," Zoë said. 

She managed to wait until the door had closed behind Danny before giving voice to her feelings. 

" _Chel!_ " she swore. 

Still, there was no time to lose. The inspectors from Head Office might be here at any moment, and though Zoë's private project hadn't been on display for Danny's prying eyes, a professional wouldn't take long to find it. Hastily, she dived for the storage unit, pulled out the drawers, and retrieved a piece of much-rewired circuit board. She looked at it, and wavered. All she had to do was throw it in the disposal chute, pass the inspection with flying colours, and no-one would be any the wiser. 

Sharply, she shook her head. This might be her only chance. 

She set the circuit board on her dressing table, retrieved a screwdriver from her makeup case, and set to work. 

⁂

Zoë was dimly aware that by now, everyone on the station must be wondering what had happened to her. People had been calling her, her door chime had been sounding more or less continuously, and various systems had shifted into emergency monitoring mode. Someone had tried to override permissions on the door lock, but to no avail; Zoë had already removed the lock's microcontroller and cannibalised it for parts. Now, the inevitable decision must have been taken to resort to cutting gear. A red dot was moving across the surface of the door, to the accompaniment of crackling noises. She estimated that they'd have the door open in thirty seconds. 

She also estimated that she'd have a working prototype in fifteen seconds. 

Carefully, she pushed the connectors home, took a deep breath, and pressed the power switch. A yellow LED, scavenged from her hand sanitiser, blinked twice, then shone steadily. 

Under ideal circumstances, Zoë would now have embarked on a comprehensive series of tests. But with her door about ten seconds from melting, there was no time for any of that. She snatched up her tablet computer, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so. She was still wearing her sleeping suit, her face was unwashed, and her hair was an unbrushed tangle, but there wasn't time to fix any of that. Slipping a pair of shoes onto her feet was the most she could do in the seconds remaining. 

She fastened the tablet computer to her wrist by its strap and picked up the assembly of circuit boards in her other hand. As she did so, a green LED illuminated beside the yellow one. The device was throbbing in her hand, with flickers of distortion crawling over the tetrahedral circuit at its heart. 

Time travel wasn't actually that difficult. That was the conclusion Zoë had come to, after studying the literature. Kerensky and Beckett and Whitaker had all covered the basic ground. If it had just been a question of physics, the time machine would have been common technology for the last fifty years. Since it wasn't, the inevitable conclusion was that something else had suppressed the technology. Most likely, that there was some entity that already had time travel, and didn't tolerate rivals. Acting on that assumption, Zoë had made several modifications to the design of her time machine. Whether they would be effective, she had no way of knowing. 

The air around Zoë seemed to be thickening until it resembled solid green glass. Somewhere beyond that barrier, in a world of shadows and darkness, the door jerked open in a succession of soundless flashes. Behind the two technicians bent over the cutting apparatus, Zoë saw and recognised the worried features of Sandra, her boss. 

She managed to stick her tongue out at Sandra before the space station where she'd lived and worked for the last three years vanished from her sight forever.


	2. First Day

Even though the beach always made Victoria Waterfield feel miserable, time and again she found herself walking down to the seashore, to lean on the promenade railings, watch the waves, and remember the day she had said her final farewells to the Doctor and Jamie. Now and again she flirted with the notion that her choice to leave them had been the wrong one, but rarely managed to entertain the notion for more than five minutes together. 

She had risen early, after an unsettling dream in which she'd been endlessly wandering the corridors of the TARDIS, searching for she knew not what. Unable to get back to sleep, she'd dressed, and found her idle steps once more led her to the sea. The tide was high, leaving only a narrow strip of shingle between the sea wall and the water. The sea wasn't too rough today, but under the leaden sky it looked very cold and uninviting. A chilly wind was blowing onto the shore; Victoria pulled her coat more closely around herself. The sun had not yet risen, but a single bright star — presumably the planet Venus — could be seen near the horizon. It almost seemed to be an eye looking down at her, cold and uncaring. 

There were terrible things out there, she knew - in space, and in the past, and in the future. At any moment, something might reach out and extinguish this little island of light and warmth and safety that was the Earth. 

She shivered, and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. She turned away — 

And turned back, in time to see a rod of green light shoot across the sea. For less than a second, it bathed the sea, the shore, the promenade, and Victoria in its unearthly radiance; then it was gone, leaving a purple bar across her vision. It took Victoria a moment or two of blinking before she noticed that there was something white in the sea that hadn't been there before. She had just time to wonder if it was a discarded dress before she noticed the dark hair, and then the desperately-flailing arms. 

Victoria had sometimes wondered how she'd react if faced with an unexpected emergency. She'd imagined herself rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but scream for help. Now the emergency was on her, though, she found herself responding to the situation as if she'd been trained to. In less than a minute, she had flung her coat off, grabbed a lifebelt, run down the steps to the beach, and waded boldly into the sea. The shingle was steep; before she had gone very far out, she was waist deep in freezing cold water. 

The swimmer was quite close now: a few more steps should do it. Victoria took those steps and found the water was up to her shoulders. Much further and she'd risk being swept away too, but surely she was now almost in reach. She leaned forward, holding the lifebelt out in front of her, shouting "Over here!" 

A wave broke over her, soaking her from head to foot. She shook her dripping hair out of her eyes, and felt a tug on the lifebelt. A hand, small and white, was gripping the far side of it. She tried to step backward, pulling the swimmer with her, but the stones moving under her feet, the slope of the beach, her waterlogged clothes, combined to make the task almost impossible. 

A head broke the surface a little way away. The swimmer was a young woman of about her own age, pale, dark-haired, and looking only semiconscious. 

"We're almost safe," Victoria shouted at her. "Don't give up. Hold on." 

As the next wave came towards them she threw herself backwards, letting the water carry the two of them up the beach. For agonising seconds she was struggling for a purchase under the water; then her feet found a hold and she was able to stand again. They'd definitely made some headway. She took the other girl by the arm and half-led, half-dragged her toward the shore. A larger-than-usual wave caught them off-balance, and they ended up crawling out of the sea, dragging the lifebelt with them. 

Once her head felt a little clearer and she'd got her breath back, Victoria turned her attention to the young woman she'd rescued, who was currently on her hands and knees coughing up seawater. She was wearing what, to Victoria's eyes, was an outlandish one-piece white garment, whose immersion in the sea had rendered it positively indecent. Though, she had to admit, her own sodden blouse was not as she would wish it to be seen either. 

"Can you walk?" she asked. 

The other girl looked blankly at her. "You're real," she said. 

Cold was already beginning to seep through Victoria's limbs. "Can you understand me?" she said. "We cannot remain here. We will freeze." 

She rose to her feet, held out a hand, and pulled the girl upright. At the best stagger the two could manage, they ascended the steps. Victoria secured her coat, and draped it around the girl's shoulders. Her need, not to mention the effect of water on her costume, was clearly far greater than Victoria's. 

"I live nearby," Victoria said, as they headed through the early morning streets to Victoria's tiny flat. "We must get you warm and dry as soon as possible. If you don't mind me asking, who are you, and how did you end up in the sea?" 

"I'm Zoë," the girl said, her teeth chattering. "Zoë Heriot. That's one R and one T. People always get that wrong." 

"Delighted to meet you. My name is Victoria—" 

"— Waterfield," Zoë finished. "I've been looking for you." 

That remark, Victoria decided, had all sorts of worrying implications. But they were best delayed until after a hot bath, a change of clothes, and as much hot, sweet tea as possible. 

⁂

"So you dreamed about me?" Victoria asked. The hot bath and the change of clothes had done their work, and Zoë looked considerably healthier and more cheerful. Wearing one of Victoria's dresses, she was curled up on Victoria's sofa in what Victoria's landlady called the 'lounge' and Victoria called the 'drawing room'. 

"I've had the dreams ever since I met the Doctor," Zoë said, and took another swig of tea. "It took ages before I could remember anything from them. Except you. You were being held prisoner in a big house by some kind of cyborgs. And you didn't look quite the same." 

"How so?" 

Zoë closed her eyes, set her mug down, and briefly put her fingers to her temples. "Your hair looked greasy. And you had a couple of spots on your chin, just here." 

"How extraordinary!" Victoria found herself torn between offence at the personal nature of Zoë's remark, and amazement at its accuracy. "You are sadly correct. My captors took no particular interest in my appearance." 

"What were they?" 

"Daleks." Victoria shuddered. "They exist only to hate and destroy. They destroyed my home, my father..." She found her eyes pricking, and dabbed at them with her handkerchief. "But continue your story. You say you dreamed about me." 

"Yes," Zoë said. "So I researched you and found out where and when you lived. Then I built a time machine." 

"As one does," Victoria couldn't help saying. 

"It's not as hard as it sounds. I think it could even be done with the primitive technology of this era. I set the coordinates for my best guess at where and when you'd be. And — well, here I am." 

"You travelled back in time just to speak to me?" 

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," Zoë said, matter-of-factly. "And I'm sure there's information in my dreams I can't get at. The only thing I know is that you're in them. Maybe if you tell me everything that happened to you when the Daleks had you as a prisoner, it'll help me get things straightened out in here." She tapped her head. 

"If it helps you, then I shall tell you what I can, by all means. But if you came here merely to interview me, what will you then do?" 

An expression of unease crossed Zoë's face. "I hadn't really thought about that. The time machine was a one-shot; I'd have to build another one to get back. If I decided to do that, of course." 

"Is that, then, not your time machine?" Victoria asked. She pointed at the rectangular, silver, book-sized tablet that lay on the coffee table. It had been dangling from Zoë's wrist when Victoria had pulled her from the sea, and other than the clothes she'd arrived in was her only possession. Its immersion in salt water did not seem to have harmed it in the slightest. 

"No, that's just my portacomp — portable computer," Zoë explained. "I downloaded as much data as I could onto it before I came here. I knew there'd be all sorts of things about the era that I'd have to look up." 

"I wish I had had such a device, when I first arrived here. Had Mrs Harris — my guardian — not taken endless care over my introduction to this century, I should have made blunder after blunder." Victoria gave Zoë another long look. "If you have no means of returning to your time, and are forced to remain here, you will need such a chaperone. And some means of supporting yourself." 

"I suppose I will." 

Victoria made up her mind. "If you wish, you could stay here for the meantime. I only have the one bedroom, but I could make up a bed on that sofa for you. And I shall help you become accustomed to twentieth-century life." 

"Really?" Zoë's face lit up. "That's far more than I've got any right to expect from you. I suppose I ought to find some way of paying you." 

"The Electricity Board — that's where I work — usually have a shortage of staff," Victoria said. "At the moment, I believe they may have an opening in the accounts department. Are you any good with figures?" 

Zoë drained her mug of tea. "Funny you should say that," she said. 

⁂

"Jamie? Doctor?" 

Victoria opened her eyes, and saw only darkness. She could hear soft footsteps, though. Someone was in the room with her. 

"Doctor?" 

That was Zoë's voice. It sounded quite loud, too. Trying not to make a noise, Victoria sat up in bed and looked around. There was a pale figure walking to and fro: for a moment, Victoria's thoughts leaped to stories of ghosts, before common sense supplied the simpler explanation that this was Zoë. 

Victoria climbed out of bed. Zoë walked straight past her, her eyes open but seemingly not registering Victoria's presence. Was she sleepwalking? Victoria found herself at a loss. She dimly remembered that there was something you were, or weren't supposed to do with sleepwalkers. Something to do with how you woke them, or shouldn't wake them. But she couldn't remember the details. 

"Jamie?" Zoë called plaintively, looked around, and resumed her pacing. 

It seemed the question was academic. She couldn't let Zoë wander about all night. She might hurt herself, quite apart from the question of disturbing Victoria's, or her neighbours', sleep. 

As the ghostly figure of Zoë approached her again, Victoria stepped in front of her and took hold of her by the shoulders. Zoë came to a stop, looked up, and seemed for the first time to acknowledge Victoria's presence. 

"It's you," she whispered, her eyes wide. 

Then she blinked, shivered, and looked around. 

"What's happening?" she asked. "Where am I?" 

"You were sleepwalking," Victoria said. 

"Oh no. Please, not again." Although Zoë's expression wasn't visible in the half-light, her voice sounded utterly miserable. "Not again." 

Instinctively, Victoria pulled Zoë closer and hugged her. Zoë's borrowed nightdress felt cold and clammy, and Zoë herself was shivering. 

"You're cold," Victoria said. "You should go back to bed." 

"What's the good of that?" Zoë's voice was muffled, her face being buried in Victoria's shoulder. "I'll just be back here again in half an hour." 

"Perhaps you will, perhaps you won't," Victoria said, trying to sound reassuring. "But if you don't go to bed, you definitely won't. You'll catch your death of cold. Now, come with me." 

Victoria took Zoë's hand, which felt chilly to the touch, and led her back to the drawing room. Even in the gloom, it was plain to see that Zoë's night had not been an easy one; most of the blankets had been thrown off the sofa, and those that remained were a disordered tangle. Without making any attempt to sort out the chaos, Zoë sat down on top of it. 

"What was I doing?" she asked. "I mean, I woke you up. How?" 

"You were walking about," Victoria said. "And calling for Jamie and the Doctor. That's all." 

"Yes. I was dreaming. Now you mention Jamie and the Doctor I can remember a bit... I was in a dark forest, all on my own." 

Victoria squeezed Zoë's hand gently. 

"But it doesn't make any sense," Zoë went on. "I only met them once, and it was on a space station. Not in a forest. Why should I dream about a forest?" 

"I don't know." Victoria wondered if there was something more she could say, but couldn't think of anything. 

"I think they must have done something to my mind. I wish I knew what." 

Victoria sat a little longer, but nothing more was said. Now she was the one getting cold, and her own bed seemed a tempting prospect. She slid her hand out of Zoë's, and stood. 

"Please don't leave me," Zoë said. 

"Then..." Victoria hesitated before making her next suggestion. "Would you like to come in my bed for a bit?" 

There was an entirely new note of astonishment in Zoë's voice. "With you?" 

"Or perhaps I should sleep in the drawing room and leave the bed to you," Victoria added. 

"No." Zoë sounded as if the shaky control she had over her emotions was close to breaking. "I don't want to be alone." 

"Then come in with me." 

Zoë made no further protest, and within moments the two were crammed into a bed scarcely big enough for one. With one arm around Zoë, more to stop herself falling out than for any other purpose, Victoria found herself wondering how she'd ever get to sleep. She concentrated on listening to the sound of Zoë's breathing, as it became deeper and more regular... 

... And it was morning, and the alarm clock was ringing. 

"Oh!" Victoria tried to silence the clock, lost her balance, and tumbled out of the bed. As she sat up, she found Zoë had also woken, and was looking at her with a mortified expression. 

"Victoria," she said, with a yawn. "I'm so sorry for disturbing you last night. I really hope it won't happen again. I was so frightened... I've never felt like that before." 

"It's all right," Victoria said. "You're stranded in the wrong time. I know how that feels." 

"But forcing you to let me into your bed." Zoë wrung her hands. "It's a horrible violation of your personal space." 

"I beg you, say no more about it," Victoria said. "It was a new experience to me, but not an unpleasant one." 

"Subject closed, then. Thank you for being understanding." Zoë pushed her hair back. "Are you still prepared to lend me some clothes? I can't very well go looking for jobs wearing pyjamas." 

"The garment you arrived in was a sleeping suit?" Victoria asked. "I see." 

"What do you see?"

Victoria giggled. "Far too much, after it had been in the water."


	3. Wiki Walk

After some weeks living together, Victoria and Zoë were beginning to settle into a workable routine. Zoë was gradually becoming accustomed to the idea of Victoria as a flesh-and-blood woman rather than the idealised beauty of her dreams, though she still found Victoria's contradictions baffling. Victoria's formal manners and code of politeness were out of keeping with this age, let alone Zoë's own — but at the same time, she seemed to think nothing of platonic physical contact, and had swiftly fallen into the habit of hugging or kissing Zoë on the slightest excuse. The first time had been when Zoë had returned from a shopping errand. 

"Why did you do that?" Zoë had asked, still clutching the shopping bag in one hand. 

"Because I'm glad to see you back, of course," Victoria had said. 

"Yes, but why _that?_ " Zoë had insisted. 

"We are close friends, what can be improper about it?... Oh! Have I committed a..." Victoria had paused, as if trying to find the right words. "A 'violation of your personal space?'" 

"Well, you have," Zoë had said, and had then realised something else. "But I liked it. Do it again any time you want." 

On her side, Victoria had found it no easier to adjust to life with Zoë. Victoria had always considered herself a fairly tidy person, but it seemed that by comparison with Zoë, she was a positive slattern. Their discussion over the appropriate schedule for cleaning the bath had been long, not to mention emotional, and their eventual peace treaty had taken the form of an elaborate rota pinned up in the kitchen. Though Victoria would never use the term 'neat freak,' it was undeniable that Zoë was one. Once or twice she'd been sorely tempted to trip Zoë into a puddle or upend a trifle over her head, just to see her reaction. Fortunately Victoria was used to resisting temptation, and Zoë never knew how close she came to these calamities. 

On this particular morning Zoë, who usually woke with the punctuality of a metronome, was a few minutes late in her rising. From her drawn face, it was clear that she had suffered another disturbed night. 

"Are you all right?" Victoria asked. "You look — pardon me — a little peaky this morning." 

"I'm fine," Zoë said automatically. "I just didn't sleep very well." 

Victoria gave her a sympathetic look. "Nightmares again?" 

"I suppose I hoped when I found you they'd stop." Zoë poured herself a bowl of cereal. "Well, they haven't." 

"What was the dream about? Or would you rather not..." 

"I can't remember. I can never remember my dreams." Zoë added milk to her cereal, and sat down at the breakfast table. "Back on the space station, it took me weeks going to bed with the computer before I managed to record your name." 

"And you presumably tried the same technique this time?" 

Zoë nodded. "All I got was wiggly lines." 

"Do you think it's important?" 

"I don't _know_. That's what's so frustrating." 

"Then..." Victoria hesitated, plucked up her courage, and took the plunge. "Would you like to share my bed again?" 

The spoon froze in position halfway to Zoë's mouth. 

"That way, if you should talk in your sleep, I would hear what you said," Victoria went on. 

"I don't know." Zoë seemed to realise she still had a spoonful of cereal in her hand, and returned it carefully to the plate. "It seems a bit, well, intimate." 

"In my time the maids often slept two to a bed," Victoria said. "You may think such arrangements beneath your station in life, but—" 

"That isn't what I meant. I'm quite high up the Kinsey scale, Victoria. I might enjoy it too much. Of course," she added hastily, "I always have control over my emotions." 

Victoria shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know what the Kinsey scale is. But my offer remains open to you." She looked at the clock. "Heavens, we're almost late. Eat up your breakfast, we must be getting along." 

⁂

By chance, Victoria got home from work a little earlier than usual that evening. Finding Zoë was not back yet, she disposed of a couple of trifling domestic chores, and happened to notice that Zoë had left her tablet computer turned on. Its screen showed a gently rotating galaxy. 

Cautiously, Victoria touched the screen. It blanked, and lit up with a number of brightly coloured pictures. Victoria pressed one and then another, at random. 

"Reference," the tablet said, in a soothing male voice. Victoria jumped back with a squeak of surprise, nearly tripping over the coffee table. "Please enter topic." 

As her pounding heart returned to its normal rate, Victoria approached the tablet once more. A keyboard was visible at the bottom of the screen, with a blinking cursor above it. Now, what had Zoë been talking about at breakfast? 

KINSEY SCALE, she typed. The tablet chirped, and began to speak. 

  


It was some time later that the door opened and Zoë came in. 

"Sorry I'm late," she said cheerfully. "There was a two-shilling discrepancy in the general ledger. We were looking everywhere for it. The sooner they go over to decimal currency the better, as far as I'm concerned... Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt." 

Victoria, feeling as if her face had turned the colour of a sunset, jumped hastily to her feet, and this time did overturn the coffee table. The tablet, unheeded, continued playing back the video she'd been watching: a cheerful, chubby young woman with untidy green hair and a stud in her nose, holding up two large, sparkly sex toys as she discussed their relative merits and defects. 

"Oh, you've found Georgetta's sex tips," Zoë said. "I downloaded all of her videos. She's always good fun." 

Victoria seemed, for the moment, capable of nothing but incoherent noises. 

"Are you all right?" Zoë asked. 

"I looked up that Kinsey scale," Victoria babbled. "And then at the bottom there was a cross-reference to 'female sexuality'. And I went there, and then, after that..." 

Zoë nodded. "We call that a Wiki Walk. You keep finding more and more topics to research, don't you?" 

"It was horrible," Victoria went on. "And fascinating. I wanted to stop and I wanted to keep going at the same time. There were _diagrams_! And _pictures_!" 

"Oh. Did you find it upsetting?" 

"I don't know." Victoria blushed again. "I feel most peculiar. I just couldn't stop myself looking." 

"And now," the tablet said cheerfully, to the accompaniment of a zipper being unfastened, "it's time to show you just what these bad boys can do." 

With a squeal, Victoria clapped her hands over her eyes. Zoë hastily retrieved the tablet and cut the video off. 

"Was she really going to..." Victoria began, peeping cautiously between her fingers. 

"Oh, yes," Zoë said. "She's very hands-on." 

"And those... they were vibrators, weren't they? In my time you needed a prescription to be allowed the use of one!" Victoria pulled a delicate square of lace from her sleeve and mopped at her forehead. "Zoë, you must take care that your computer does not fall into the wrong hands. It must have information in it that could change the course of history. Quite apart from the moral effect it might have on impressionable young people." 

"That's a good point," Zoë said. "I'll set a lock password. Something that's easy for us to remember but other people won't guess. Can you think of one?" 

"What about 'Ruth Maxtible?'" Victoria suggested. "No-one will know about her." 

"That'll do. It'll be 'RuthMaxtible9' with no spaces, capital R and capital M." Zoë tapped away at the computer. "Do you want to read any more now?" 

Victoria shook her head. "No. No. I think I had better get on with the cooking. And then perhaps compose myself quietly in a darkened room. Zoë, I had _no idea_..." 

Seemingly out of habit, she kissed Zoë on the cheek, and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.


	4. The Curse of Corfe Castle

"Was I dreaming again?" Zoë asked. "What time is it?" 

Even after the tablet computer had given Victoria a better understanding of Zoë's possible sexual preferences, Victoria had renewed her offer for Zoë to share her bed. Zoë had agreed, on the understanding that this was purely for the purposes of scientific research into her dreams. Two quiet nights had been followed by one that was nothing of the kind. 

"Gone two in the morning," Victoria murmured. 

"Did I wake you? I'm very sorry." 

Victoria found herself smiling. "I have never shared a bed with an octopus, but I think the experience must have been similar." She stroked Zoë's disordered hair. "You sounded most perturbed. Can you remember anything of your dream?" 

"Sorry. Nothing." 

"Was it, perchance, about a castle?" 

Zoë jerked in surprise, nearly sending them both tumbling out of the bed. "Did I actually say something coherent?" 

"Sufficiently. I will not pretend that I could make out all the words. But you mentioned battlements, and a tower." 

"Yes." Zoë's voice grew distant. "A big, square castle, on a hill, with a wall around it." 

"Would you recognise it, if you saw it again?" 

"Maybe. I know." There was sudden excitement in Zoë's voice. "I'll go through the tablet's collection of castle images. Maybe there's something there..." 

She tried to sit up, and found herself restrained. 

"Please keep still," Victoria urged her. "Or you will have us both on the floor. Go back to sleep, and we can examine the question in the morning." 

She'd expected Zoë to protest. Instead, Zoë wriggled even closer to her and, with a sigh that sounded remarkably happy, composed herself for sleep once more. 

⁂

"That's the one," Zoë said, holding up the tablet. "Only it wasn't ruined in the dream. Do you know it?" 

Victoria couldn't resist a shiver. "Indeed I do. That is Corfe Castle, in Dorset. I was there once, with Jamie and the Doctor. How remarkable that you should have dreamed of that castle, above all others." 

"When were you there?" Zoë asked eagerly. 

"Over three hundred years ago. In the month that it was destroyed, in the year 1646, by Captain Hughes and his men." Victoria closed her eyes, recalling the downfall of the great keep. It had not been the neat, controlled demolition of modern times, but a cataclysmic eruption of gunpowder, fire and stone. In general, though, the adventure had not been a particularly traumatic one for her. Except... "I recall that two men were killed when the inner gatehouse was blown up. It was thought they cut the fuses too short, or perhaps a stray spark set the explosion off too soon. There was talk that one of the men had found a clue to buried treasure. That he had shared the secret, and his confidant had arranged the accident so he would not have to share the loot." 

"I suppose if the place was being pulled down and blown up no-one would notice a bit more disturbed earth," Zoë said. "But was there any treasure?" 

Victoria shook her head. "Neither the Doctor nor Captain Hughes believed the story. The Roundheads had stripped the castle of what they could, and the villagers took what was left. Was there treasure in the dream?" 

Zoë shook her head. "A curse, I think. I can't remember. I hate knowing there's something in here and I can't get at it." She thumped her head, but it didn't seem to dislodge any additional memories. "I think maybe we should take a look at that castle in more detail. We get a number of days' holiday each year, don't we? Perhaps we should spend them at Corfe." 

"We shall get no days' holiday unless we're at work directly," Victoria said, glancing at the clock. "We shall have to postpone this discussion until later." 

⁂

It seemed that even with Zoë's mathematical skills, the Electricity Board's accounts department was unable to avoid time-consuming discrepancies. Once again, Victoria found herself alone in the flat, with the tablet computer lying temptingly on the table in front of her. She sat down in front of it, stood up, paced irresolutely, then sat down again and typed in her password before the sudden resolution faded. 

"What to do now?" she murmured, as the icons glowed into life. "'Search,' perhaps? Yes, that must be it." She typed in a few words, and found herself smiling at the screen which resulted. "Oh, Zoë. Who but you, having watched Miss Georgetta's appalling lectures, would go to the trouble of indexing them all by topic?" 

Beside the index entry that had caught Victoria's attention was a green triangle. She cautiously touched it, and the video started to play. 

"Hi, MyFaceInnaTube.com viewers!" Georgetta began, with a cheerful wave. "It's question-and-answer time. And we start with one from Kylie_5000, who wants to know: 'I think I'm in love with my best friend. How do I tell her?' 

"OK, Kylie, listen up. We know how this goes in all the Mills and Graunch stories, don't we? The lucky girls go out drinking, one spills the beans, they snog each other up against a wall, and straight to bed for a bit of the old plunger action. Well, forget all that. I mean it." She pointed at the camera. "That means you! You try something like that and it's a recipe for a brown-paper-bag disaster. 

"First, don't go into this thinking it'll all work out the way you want. Odds are she doesn't feel the same way about you. Even if she does — and remember, she probably doesn't — you'll both need to have all your wits about you. So find a safe space, somewhere where either of you can leave on your own if things get tricky. A cafe at a monorail terminal's a good place. Tell her the facts. And don't try to badger her. If she's not into you, you won't change that. Sorry, but that's how it is." 

Victoria sighed. While she was sure her understanding was by no means complete, she thought she had a better grasp than before of how Zoë's world thought a friendship between two girls might, or might not, become something more. Now all she had to do was— 

"Next up," Georgetta said, "we've got MissTwinkleToes, who asks: 'My darling sweetie sweetie snugglemuffin...' I think she must mean her significant other," she added, with such a deadpan look that Victoria couldn't resist a guilty giggle. "Anyway, Snugglemuffin 'has promised to take me to a Caribbean island and make passionate love to me amid the surf on a moonlit beach. Is there any advice you have to make this holiday perfect for us?'" 

Georgetta rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you this for starters: Don't even think about sex on a beach. If there are two things that never, ever, go together, it's bouncy happy funtimes and sand. You'll remember your holiday all right, but not the way darling Snugglemuffin hopes. Take it from me. I do this stuff so you don't have to — and, of course, in the interests of mad science. 

"And talking of mad science, those wacky guys at RakashaCorp have come up with this." She held up a bright yellow, rounded, rodlike implement with various oddly-shaped protruberances. "The Banana Split Turbo. Now you're all asking me: Georgetta, whereever are you supposed to stick that? And what happens to you when you do? Well, darlings, I haven't a clue. But they sent me the manual, too, so we can all find out together..." 

Victoria's hand hovered over the 'stop' button. But, despite the almost visible halo of embarassment that hung over her, not to mention the feeling that all her hair was beginning to stand on end, she couldn't quite bring herself to press it.


	5. Nine Tiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real life, the camping coaches at Corfe Castle (98 MILAN and 43 CORAL) were broken up on-site in Spring 1968. Depending exactly when Victoria left the TARDIS, they may no longer exist by the time of this story, but I shall stretch the historical point.

By the time that Victoria and Zoë were riding in a diesel train down the sleepy rural branch line, several more weeks and several more disturbed nights had passed over them both. Sadly, Zoë's nightmares had brought them no closer to working out what might have happened at the castle. In her most recent bout of disturbed sleep, the only comprehensible words she had spoken had been a mention of 'nine tiles.' The tablet computer had suggested a number of possible references, ranging from a Mah-jongg hand to a technology company that didn't exist yet, but none seemed to fit the bill. 

As the train approached Corfe Castle railway station, the castle itself towered over the line. Shattered and ruinous though it was, the keep, occupying the summit of a low hill, still dominated the landscape. Zoë looked up at the remains, trying to reconcile them with the images that haunted her nightmares. She didn't have long to think, though: in less than half a minute, the train was drawing up at the railway station that served the castle and the adjacent village. 

The station, when the two climbed out of the train, was showing the ravages of time and neglect. The wooden shelter looked as if it had last seen paint thirty or more years ago, weeds were creeping over the track, and the condition of the fences was precarious. Victoria and Zoë climbed out of the train, waited until it had thumped away down the line, then crossed the track to the ticket barrier. Upon Victoria's enquiring, the porter on duty directed them to the camping coaches, which stood in a siding at the far end of the small goods yard. 

A short walk brought the holidaymakers to the coaches in question. Originally these had been luxury Pullman cars, painted in chocolate and cream, but it was clear that their days of exclusive dining were far behind them. Their exteriors were faded, stained with rust, and bulged alarmingly here and there. 

"I thought we we were lucky to get a berth," Victoria said, as they mounted a set of steps between the two coaches. "Now I see why we could. Which one are we in?" 

"This one," Zoë said. "'Coral.'" 

Inside, 'Coral' had long since been stripped of her elaborate interior, though the faded wooden panels lining her walls hinted at past luxuries. The furnishings were such as might be found at any campsite, and stains on the ceiling hinted that the roof might not be particularly watertight. Having placed their luggage in the twin bedroom they were to use, Victoria returned to the kitchenette area and sat down on one of the canvas chairs that British Railways had given of their plenty. 

"You're worried about something," Zoë said, taking a seat opposite her. 

"Yes," Victoria said. "I'm afraid of what's going to happen." 

"But you don't know what's going to happen." 

"That..." Victoria spread her hands. "That isn't the point. When I chose to leave the Doctor and Jamie, I knew that travelling with them and sharing their adventures was harming me. I could not eat, or sleep, for fear of what might happen to me next. Now I am embarking on an adventure again, and I can feel the terror coming back." 

Zoë, hesitantly, patted her hand. "If we were in my time I'd recommend counselling. But mid-twentieth-century psychiatry... No. Definitely not." 

⁂

Unpacking had not detained the two travellers long, and a few minutes' walk through the village brought them to the castle gateway. 

"Is this how you remember it?" Zoë asked, looking around the ruin. Ahead, the shattered remains of the keep stood up against the sky. Below it was a dry moat, and then a series of grass slopes down to where they stood. On either side, the outer wall was punctuated by the remains of towers, some wildly tilted as if wrenched out of position by the hands of giants. 

Victoria shook her head. "No. It's much tidier now. There was rubble everywhere. And the tents and shacks where the soldiers were living." 

"I know what you mean. It's been stripped to the bone." Zoë gave the outer bailey another searching look. Apart from a couple of temporary-looking sheds and a few patches of disturbed earth, nothing relieved the neatly-mown grass. "I suppose we'd better have a look round while we're here, anyway." 

"I suppose so," Victoria reluctantly conceded. 

A muddy path led up the left-hand side of the bailey to an inner gatehouse. The Roundheads' attempt to demolish this had left it split neatly in half; both its towers were still standing, but the western one was now several feet lower than its mirror image. The two halves of the gateway arch, both now ending in midair, emphasized the difference in heights. 

"This is where the men were killed in the explosion," Victoria said. 

"I see." Zoë pulled out her tablet computer and held it up. It clicked, and an image of the tower appeared on its screen. 

"But what are you hoping to find?" Victoria asked. 

Zoë shrugged. "I don't know." 

The two proceeded to make a complete tour of the castle. In other circumstances, Victoria thought she might have been able to enjoy it: if, say, it had been a bright summer's day, and her father had been by her side, explaining the castle's architecture and history to her. If she had never met the Doctor, or the Daleks. Peering out over the lower ward through an arrow slit in the keep wall, she found herself imagining the visitors in view as if they were people of her own time. The man over by the west wall would be an antiquarian, perhaps, in a faded top-hat and tails. The two boys rolling down the grass bank would be dressed in sailor suits rather than T-shirts and shorts, and no doubt be on their best behaviour. Rather than lolling on the ground with a transistor radio, that scruffy young couple would be walking side by side, exchanging meaningful glances under the watchful eye of their chaperone. Still looking at those last two, Victoria felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy. 

She jumped at Zoë's touch on her shoulder. 

"I've done the whole Gloriette area," Zoë said. "I didn't find anything. If there's even anything to find." 

They walked back down the path, passing again through the bisected gatehouse. Victoria stopped, leaned against the gatehouse wall and closed her eyes. 

"What on Earth are you doing?" Zoë asked. "Are you OK?" 

Victoria opened her eyes again. "I was trying to pick up spiritual influences," she said. "Mr Maxtible said he was sure I was a sensitive. Once or twice he tried to hold a séance." 

"Did anything happen?" Zoë asked, the scepticism plain in her voice. 

"I would rather not go into details." She forced a smile, and a lighter tone of voice. "Something was spilt all over the floor: Mr Maxtible assured us it was ectoplasm." 

"Really?" 

"We believed him at the time, though I recall that Cook had been complaining about cornflour going missing from the larder," Victoria said. "Whatever the substance was, it got trodden through the house. Poor Mollie was put to considerable trouble cleaning it up." 

Zoë grimaced. "Yuck. Anyway, now we've done the whole thing and nothing's jumped out at us. Does that help how you feel at all?" 

"Sadly not." Victoria shook her head. 

"But logically, if you were scared of what we might find, and we haven't found anything..." 

"My emotions," Victoria said, "are not so easily subordinated to logic." 

⁂

Before the two left the castle to consider their next move, Zoë had thought it best to take a look in the sheds near the gatehouse. Within, the disturbed patches of grass in the courtyard were quickly explained: a number of archaeological digs had taken place in the castle over the years, and the shed housed an exhibition of some of the finds. These mainly comprised arrowheads, musket balls and shards of pottery. 

As they approached the far end of the shed, Zoë suddenly stiffened and caught Victoria by the arm. She pointed at a glass case, which contained a couple of mediæval inlaid tiles, bearing designs in red and yellow. One tile bore the shaggy face of a lion in its corner, while the rest was occupied by a neat grid of squares, each square either red or yellow with no discernable pattern. The other tile carried no picture, just the same seemingly-random red and yellow squares. 

"Nine tiles," Victoria murmured, remembering the words Zoë had uttered in her dream. "Are these two of them?" 

"I don't know." Zoë held up her tablet computer and photographed the tiles. "But I think we need to find out." 

Victoria read the neatly-printed card beside the tiles. "These were found in different parts of the castle. Maybe there were more. But surely some must have been lost or destroyed over the years?" 

"Maybe, but we need to look anyway." Zoë gave the tile another look. "Do you notice? They're based on a nine by nine grid. Whoever made this was fond of nines." 

"You think, then, that pattern has a meaning?" 

"If all the tiles were like that one you'd have eighty-one bits per tile. Nine tiles like that and you could encode ninety-one bytes of data. You can do a lot in ninety-one bytes. Anyway, let's get looking again." 

A further circuit of the castle, inside and out, rewarded the pair with two more tiles. One was inset into the wall high up within a niche, out of reach of casual thieves and protected from the weather. The other was in one of the gatehouse towers, again high above the ground, and best seen from the far side of the dry moat. Both were patterned, bearing no pictures. In each case Zoë carefully photographed them. 

"Four out of nine," Zoë said, as they sat in 'Coral' eating a late and hastily-prepared picnic lunch. "I wonder what happened to the other five." 

"When the castle was demolished, a lot of the stone must have been used to rebuild the village," Victoria said eagerly. "There may be tiles there, too. And then we must consider the church." 

"Yes, that's a good point." Zoë swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese, and fastidiously wiped her fingers. "But we can't go round the village banging on people's doors and asking if we can take up the carpet and see if they've got any old tiles in the floor." 

Victoria shook her head. "I don't think they would be on the floor. The tiles we saw in the castle were each on their own. If you took one tile, you could not cover a floor with it." 

"You're getting quite into this, aren't you?" Zoë said. 

"I..." Victoria, for no reason that she could articulate, felt oddly self-conscious. "I suppose I am." 

⁂

When Zoë and Victoria stepped out of the church, they could have been forgiven for thinking their quest was almost complete. Two of the tiles they sought, each bearing a picture of a saint, had been embedded in the church wall. If there were indeed nine tiles to find, then there were only three more remaining. 

That early sense of triumph quickly faded as the afternoon wore on. They had walked every street in the village, or so it seemed, and had knocked on as many doors. A few residents had allowed them to search their houses for architectural clues, to no avail. Others had been considerably shorter with them. Then there had been the close encounter with a large, aggressive dog, which had obliged them to make their escape by scrambling over the garden gate as the brute snapped at their heels. 

"What do we do now?" Victoria asked, as they arrived once more at the gate of the churchyard. 

Zoë shook her head. "I don't know." The admission was a reluctant one. "There's no reason why all the tiles would have survived, of course. But it's very annoying. I don't like unsolved puzzles." 

"Life isn't always neat and tidy," Victoria said. "And we've got a few more days here. We don't have to try and search everywhere in one go." 

"If the tiles aren't there to find, it doesn't matter when or where or how hard we look," Zoë said dully. 

Victoria waited a little, to see if Zoë was inclined to suggest anything else. When it became clear that she wasn't, Victoria cleared her throat and said "Shall we go back to the station?" 

"No." Zoë jumped to her feet. "I'd like to go for a walk." She pointed at a hill adjacent to the one on which the castle stood. "How about up there?" 

"If you say so," Victoria replied meekly. 

The hill proved to be steep, with an uncertain footing. When they were perhaps halfway up, Victoria paused to catch her breath and felt her shoes slip on the wet grass. She tried to recover her balance, skidded again, and felt Zoë's arms catch hold of her. 

"Oh," Breathlessly, Victoria managed to get her feet back onto firm ground. "Thank you. You're quite strong," she added, as Zoë gently relaxed her grip. 

"I try to keep in shape." Being assured that Victoria was in no danger of falling, Zoë released her. "Do you want to sit down for a bit?" 

Victoria nodded. "I think I do." 

They took their seats on the damp grass, looking back across the valley at the village and the castle. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Zoë said suddenly. "Why did you choose to settle in this era?" 

"At the time, I had no thought beyond leaving the TARDIS at the first opportunity," Victoria said. "If I had made that decision a little earlier, I might have found myself living in 2018." 

"You didn't want to go back to your own time?" 

Victoria shook her head. "The world would have been as it was when I left it; _I_ would not. There would have been no place for me in it." 

"You're very brave," Zoë said. "Choosing to live forever in another time." 

"I did not feel brave at the time. Quite the reverse." 

"Well, I think you are, anyway." 

"Thank you." Victoria got to her feet. "I am quite rested now, if you wish to resume the ascent." 

Zoë jumped up. "Ready when you are." 

As she pulled on her coat, Victoria happened to take another glance at the village. She stopped, then took a second, longer, look. "Zoë," she said. "That inn close by the castle gatehouse. Is there something on its chimney?" 

Zoë shaded her eyes. "Yes. It's tile number seven, I'm sure of it. Of course! We could only have seen it from the back garden, or up here. Victoria, I could kiss you." 

"Please do, if you wish to." 

Zoë gave her a rapid peck on the cheek, accompanied by an undeniable blush. "We can forget about climbing the hill," she went on. "Now we know the tile's there, we can find somewhere to photograph it from." 

"Eating at the inn would surely be the easiest method. We could dine on the terrace." 

"Let's do that." Zoë's attention already seemed to be drifting away, as her mind focused once again on the problem of the tiles. "Ideally we'd use a drone or something to survey the village from all angles." 

"A bee?" Victoria asked, in some perplexity. 

Zoë shook her head. "A small, remotely-controlled helicopter. The problem is, they haven't been invented yet. And we can't afford to hire a full-size helicopter." 

"I'm very glad of that. I rode in a helicopter with the Doctor and Jamie once. It was awful." 

"Well, I wasn't suggesting we flew it ourselves. I'm sure I could," Zoë added firmly. "But I think we've got to rule it out. We'll have to do it all on foot again." 

"More walking?" Victoria asked wearily. 

"We can do that tomorrow, if you're feeling tired. Would you rather go back to the station? I can always check over my photos and see if I've missed anything." 

"That," Victoria said, "sounds like a far more sensible plan."


	6. Trespassers Won't Be Prosecuted

On their return from the inn, with the seventh tile safely photographed, Victoria had no thoughts beyond a quiet evening. But it seemed that Zoë had other plans. She disappeared into their shared bedroom, and presently emerged wearing a black tracksuit and rubber-soled shoes. In her arms she was carrying a bundle of similar clothes, which she tossed at Victoria. 

"What are these for?" Victoria asked, though dark suspicions were already forming in her mind. 

"I went through my photos," Zoë said. "I think the last two tiles are still in the castle." 

"Can't we look at them tomorrow?" 

Zoë shook her head. "We need to go when there's no-one else there." 

"I presume, then, they are in areas we are not allowed to visit." 

"More or less. Anyway, it'll be dark soon, so get changed." 

Victoria retired to the bedroom, and changed into the provided jeans, jumper and plimsolls. They weren't clothes she recognised, nor did they fit her particularly well. Zoë, she decided, must have bought them at some point before the holiday, against this possibility. 

"It's a pity we haven't got any masks," Zoë said, as Victoria returned to the kitchenette. "Or something dark to put on our faces." She pulled her trousers up a few inches. "Does my bum look big in this? Don't answer." 

"I did not intend to," Victoria said. 

"Now, we need something to dig with." Zoë delved in the cutlery drawer and extracted a serving spoon. "I think that's our best shot." She tucked the spoon into her pocket, looked around, and seemed to see Victoria properly for the first time. "Are you all right? You look a bit queasy." 

Victoria shook her head. "It's the fear again." 

"But the worst to worry about is the local police. And even if they do catch us, trespassing's a civil matter. I checked." 

"Not the police. The curse." Victoria swallowed. "Zoë, if there is something dangerous buried here, should we really try to uncover it?" 

"Sorry," Zoë said. "I can't let an unsolved puzzle drop. That's the sort of girl I am." 

"Then I shall do my best to assist you," Victoria said. She delved in her handbag and transferred various items to the pockets of her borrowed jeans. She held up the last one: a small torch. 

"After one has travelled with the Doctor for a while, one tends to prepare for unforeseen emergencies," she said, by way of explanation. 

"There's a lot more to you than people think, isn't there?" Zoë said. "Shall we go?" 

They crept out of the coach and through the darkened streets of the village, not uttering a word until they stood on the road that ran past the foot of the castle hill. On their right was the railway embankment; on their left, the ruined keep was silhouetted against the moon. 

"I can never get used to seeing it like that," Zoë said, in a low voice. "The moon, I mean, not the castle." 

"Like what?" Victoria asked nervously, as if the pale orb might at any moment start to drip with blood. 

"Empty," Zoë said. "In my time, there are cities up there." 

"What are they like?" 

"I've never been there. There are probably some pictures of it on the portacomp." 

"A topic for another time, perhaps." Ahead of them, a lesser road diverged from the one they were walking along, passing under the walls of the keep. "I think we shall need to keep our wits about us for now." 

The days were long past when Corfe Castle could have repelled an army, and its shattered defences posed no great challenge to two moderately determined young women. Zoë and Victoria walked along the minor road until the castle mound was between them and the village, then began their assault. A strenuous climb up the steep grass-covered slope brought them to the four-foot railings that ringed the castle ruins. Having clambered over these, they came at once to the line of rubble that had once been the wall of the inner bailey. 

In the uncertain moonlight, the inside of the castle was a maze of shadows and jagged stones. Hand in hand, crawling as often as walking, Victoria and Zoë gradually made their way to the most intact, most shadowed corner of the keep. 

"Can I have the torch?" Zoë asked. Victoria hadn't dared to use it so far for fear of being seen, but in this dark, damp basement area, surrounded on almost all sides by towering walls, there was little chance of that. With a hand that trembled slightly, Victoria passed the torch across. Covering its bulb with her hand so only a slit of light escaped, Zoë shone it across the stone floor until it came to rest on a dark hole, covered with a chunky steel grating: the castle's well. 

"Down there." Zoë crossed to the well and aimed the torch into it. "The tablet just picked up one corner." 

Victoria joined her, and looked down into the well. In between the patches of moss and algae, a few of the red and yellow squares could be made out. 

"But you can't see the pattern." 

"No, we need to wipe that slime off it." Zoë gave the well a calculating look. "I think if I lean over and you hold onto my legs, I could reach it." 

"Would it not be safer to use some kind of brush with a long handle?" 

Zoë shook her head. "We haven't got a brush like that. And I'd need to be down there anyway to get a good picture of it." 

"But the grating is locked." 

"Yes, we'd need a file or something." 

Victoria opened her mouth to agree, and heard herself saying "Possibly not." 

"What do you mean, possibly not?" 

"I..." Victoria flushed guiltily, and tried to compose herself. "I may be able to pick the lock. Could you shine the torch on it?" 

She delved in the pocket of her jeans, and produced a couple of small screwdrivers. Kneeling by the grating, she inserted the screwdrivers into the padlock and felt for the tumblers. One by one, they clicked into position, and with a _snap_ that made her jump, the padlock opened. 

"Who taught you to do that?" Zoë asked, sounding a little stunned. 

"Professor Feynman." 

"Really? I'd like to hear the whole story. But let's get this well open first." 

It took both of them to move the heavy steel grating to one side. Once the well was open, Zoë secured the tablet computer to her wrist, handed Victoria the torch, and knelt on the rim of the well. 

"Hang onto my legs," she said. "No, higher up. That's right. Here goes..." 

Victoria, clinging onto Zoë's legs while trying to hold the torch for her, couldn't see much of what was going on, but she could feel the twisting and jerking as Zoë tried to lower herself head-first into the hole. She tried to dig her shoes into the paving slabs and make herself as heavy as possible, but even with all her effort she could feel something moving. At first she thought she was being dragged forward, but with a sudden stab of horror realised it was the rim of the well itself. 

"Zoë!" she called, unable to keep the panic out of her voice. "You need to get out of there! I think this stone's coming loose." 

"Nearly got it." There was a flash of light from below, and the simulated click of a shutter. "Right, I'm coming back up." 

The jerking and wriggling got worse, as did the rocking of the stone beneath Victoria. She opened her mouth to speak, but her warning turned into a terrified scream as the stone jerked forward. The torch flew out of her hand; she could see it tumbling, end over end, down the well until it hit the water and was extinguished. She clutched desperately at Zoë, and the two swayed together on the brink. 

"Don't let go!" Zoë gasped. Her hand reached back and up, and caught hold of Victoria's jumper. 

"I'm not." Victoria tried to wriggle away from the edge of the well, still keeping a tight hold on Zoë. The stone rocked again, nearly tipping both of them into the well, but the pair slid back a few welcome inches. 

"Careful," Zoë said. "I think we're... oh!" 

Victoria's jumper, unable to support the load that was being put on it, had ripped. For a moment it seemed that Zoë was lost, but her flailing hand caught another handful of fabric. She pulled herself up, half-choking Victoria as she did so. As the weight lessened, Victoria was able to roll to one side, and a moment later Zoë was lying beside her. 

"Oh, Zoë," she managed. 

"That was scary," Zoë admitted. In the darkness Victoria couldn't see Zoë's face, but her voice sounded terrified enough, and her hands were shaking. "Let's get the cover back on and get out of here." 

They lowered the grating back onto the well and snapped the padlock onto it. Instead of retracing their footsteps to the fence, though, Zoë headed in the opposite direction, towards the bisected gatehouse. 

"You're going the wrong way!" Victoria protested. 

Zoë shook her head. "We've still got to get the ninth tile. That's in number four tower in the outer bailey." 

"But we have lost the torch." 

"We'll have to manage." 

They tiptoed through the gateway and made their way down to the tower, trying to keep in the shadows cast by the wall. Victoria, her heart still hammering, strained for the sounds of movement or voices; but it seemed that so far, at least, no-one had spotted them. 

The floor of the tower was hard-packed earth. Wordlessly, Zoë pointed at a point where it met the wall; a few millimetres of tile were barely visible in the moonlight. 

"Keep watch while I dig," Zoë whispered. 

In some ways, the waiting was worse than their near-disaster at the well. Crouching in a window niche, Victoria tried to keep a clear view of the courtyard while remaining concealed. Between the scraping sounds as Zoë tried to dig the packed earth away with her spoon, Victoria kept fancying she could hear the footsteps of a night-watchman, or perhaps those of soldiers from centuries before. It was hard to judge distance or size in the moonlight; twice Victoria felt her heart leap into her mouth at the sight of sudden movement in the courtyard, before realising it was only a fox hunting for prey. 

In a castle this old, there might be worse things than night-watchmen or endlessly walking sentries, of course. In her niche Victoria was facing away from the inner gatehouse where the Roundheads had lost their lives; it was a constant battle not to turn, to assure herself that the dead soldiers were not creeping up behind her, protecting the treasure that had claimed their lives. Or perhaps, just below the ground where Zoë was digging, there would be something buried, a yeti or an Ice Warrior... 

Finally yielding to temptation, she took a brief glance over her shoulder, but the edge of the niche blocked the inner gatehouse from her view. As she turned back, she let out an involuntary gasp. There was somebody at the main gateway; she could see the light of their torch. As it swung across the courtyard, she dropped to the floor and lay flat. 

"Zoë!" she hissed. "There's someone coming!" 

"Any idea who?" Zoë replied, the sounds of her digging continuing unabated. 

"Someone with a torch. I can't see who." 

"OK. Hang on a moment." 

There were a few more scraping sounds. Then Zoë whispered "Close your eyes." 

Victoria screwed her eyes up tightly. "Ready." 

Even through her closed eyes, she could see the flash as the tablet photographed the last tile. There was a sound from lower down in the courtyard, that might have been a cry of surprise. 

"Run for the keep!" Zoë said sharply. 

They ran from the tower, the torch beam swinging around somewhere below and behind them. As they passed through the inner gatehouse, there was more shouting, and the sound of running footsteps. The keep towered over them on their right, blotting out the stars. Then, as the pursuers' feet echoed in the gatehouse behind them, they bumped into the railings that marked the edge of the tower. Victoria scrambled over, further tearing her jumper as she did so; Zoë followed suit. Below them, the hill sloped away, steep and treacherous and entirely devoid of cover. 

As Zoë began to descend the hill, Victoria grabbed her and pointed at a nearby fragment of wall. They threw themselves flat behind it, clinging to each other as the sound of heavy boots came closer. Lying face down they could see nothing except the occasional flash of light, as whoever was using the torch shone it down the hillside. 

After what felt like several hours, the boots moved off. Victoria kept a tight hold of Zoë until she was sure they weren't coming back; then the two clambered down the mound as silently as they could, sliding and scrambling down until they reached the road. At the best pace compatible with secrecy, they made their way back to the station.


	7. First Night

After the activities of her busy day and night, Victoria should, by rights, have been ready to drop. Instead, she found herself filled with nervous energy, pacing to and fro in the torn and dirty clothes she'd worn to the castle. Zoë, her usual obsession with cleanliness seemingly forgotten, had not changed out of her mud-streaked tracksuit either. Ever since their return to the camping coach, she had been hunched over her tablet, swiping her decidedly grubby fingers this way and that across its screen. 

"Have we done it?" Victoria asked eventually, when Zoë seemed to have reached a natural break in her activities. "Are these the nine tiles we wanted?" 

"Yes: look." Zoë flipped through the images. "Now, if we replace the pictures on these four with concentric squares, and reduce the colours to black and white... there. What does that look like to you?" 

"I have not the least idea." 

"I thought you'd been to the future? It's a QR code. All we need to do is get the tiles in the right order and read the code off." 

"How can you tell which order's the right one?" 

"I don't, but there are only nine factorial times four to the eighth possible arrangements of nine tiles. That's around twenty-three billion. But these four have to go in the corners with particular orientations, so it's more like four factorial times five factorial times four to the fourth. That's only seven hundred thousand. It shouldn't take the computer long to work through the possibilities." She began typing again. 

"But if there are thousands of possible messages, how do you know which one's right?" 

"QR codes include error correction. Only a handful of the combinations will be valid." Zoë continued to tap. "For n equals zero, n is less than five..." 

Victoria pulled off her ruined jumper. "I think, if you are going to be some time, I shall wash and get ready for bed." 

"Wash," Zoë repeated. She looked down at her grimy hands as if seeing them for the first time. Her expression of horror was such that Victoria had to stop herself laughing. "I'm _filthy!_ Victoria, why didn't you tell me sooner?" 

"I thought it was obvious," Victoria said, still trying to repress a smile. 

"Well, I was focusing." Zoë turned back to the tablet. "I'll just set this going and then I'll get cleaned up too." 

After they had washed, cleaned their teeth, and changed into night clothes, Zoë once again made a beeline for the tablet. 

"You should go to bed," Victoria said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "There will be time enough for this in the morning." 

"There's time for it now," Zoë said. "Look, here are the possible messages. I think it's got to be this one." She tapped at a line on the screen. 

_90Sr 25mESEofkeep ZH_

Victoria read, and reread, the message with some bafflement. "Whatever does that mean?" 

Zoë looked as if she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "It means we've come on a wild-goose chase," she said. "I know what the curse was, now. Radioactivity. That first bit means Strontium-90." 

"And the rest... that's where it's buried?" 

"I think so. Twenty-five metres east-south-east of the keep — presumably its southeastern corner. That puts it somewhere in or near the moat between the keep and the outer bailey." 

"But if it is radioactive it had surely better be left safely in the ground?" 

Zoë shook her head. "Yes, but it wouldn't be as dangerous now as it was then. Strontium-90 has a halflife of twenty-nine years. By now over ninety-five percent of it will have decayed to zirconium. Strontium-90 decays by beta emission," she went on, sounding as if she was thinking out loud. "The radiation could be blocked by a sheet of metal, but it would be dangerous to anyone who wasn't wearing full body armour." 

"I see. That's why you said the curse was radiation poisioning." 

"I think so. And someone must have found the source, and buried it." 

"Someone who knows what a — did you say 'QR' code? — is," Victoria said. "Someone who keeps thinking she's been here before." She tapped Zoë lightly on the head. "Someone who is fond of the number nine, because she has nine letters in her name. Someone with the initials ZH." 

Zoë's mouth opened soundlessly. She put both hands to her head, leaned forward, and for a moment looked as if she was about to faint. 

"Are you well?" Victoria asked in alarm. 

"You know what it feels like when your ears pop?" Zoë asked. "I feel like my brain just popped. Victoria, I _remember_." 

"Remember what?" 

Zoë stared into the middle distance with an expression of wonder. "Everything. I was at the castle with the Doctor and Jamie, centuries ago. An alien probe had crashed nearby, and everyone was poking about at its betavoltaic generator — and of course they were all getting sick and dying. We convinced people that it was cursed and it had to be buried." 

"Then why did you leave the code? A code that nobody, even today, can understand?" 

"Well, the Doctor said we should make a note of where we'd left it. And so I said, we should do it as a QR code, so that it couldn't be read until there was advanced technology to study the probe with. Also I... I think I wanted to prove I could do it." 

Victoria smiled. "Yes. I can easily imagine that." 

⁂

_The stone crumbled beneath them and Zoë was falling, impossibly slowly, down the well. Victoria stretched out her hand, but Zoë was already beyond reach, looking up at Victoria as she fell, a resigned expression on her face._

_"Zoë!" Victoria shouted. "Zoë!"_

"What's the matter?" 

Victoria woke with a jolt, to find herself tangled up in her blankets with Zoë's hand on her shoulder. 

"Did I... Did I talk in my sleep?" she asked, timidly. 

"You were calling for me," Zoë said. "Were you dreaming?" 

"I saw you falling down the well." Victoria sat up, realising that her nightdress was soaked with sweat and clinging uncomfortably to her. "I couldn't reach you." 

Zoë sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well, you can now." 

"I know," Victoria said. "But for how long?" 

"What do you mean, for how long?" 

Victoria took a deep breath. "Now you've solved the mystery of Corfe Castle I presume you're going to build a time machine and go back to your own time. And... I shall miss you terribly. I don't think I could bear it." She paused. This was hardly the safe, neutral ground that Georgetta's video had recommended, but she had come too far to go back now. "I think I must have fallen in love with you, Zoë. That is the only way I can describe my feelings." 

There was a long pause. Then Zoë said "I thought about building another time machine. But you told me that the Daleks came for your father when he tried to do that. It looks as if I dodged them coming here, but I don't want to take that risk again. Also," she added, in the same matter-of-fact tone, "I love you too, and if I left you I don't think I'd ever be happy again." 

"Really?" Victoria asked. 

Zoë kissed her on the cheek. "Really." 

Despite having just received the only answer that wouldn't have broken her heart, Victoria found that her nervousness was, if anything, increasing. 

"Does that mean you— would you like to—" she began, stammered incoherently, and finally forced out the word " _intimacy?_ " 

"Are you asking if I want to have sex with you?" Zoë asked. 

"Yes." Victoria found she was shivering, though with fear or excitement, she could not say. 

"Well, of course I do. I've wanted to ever since that first night. Maybe before. You're lucky I've had mind-training or I mightn't have been able to resist the temptation." 

"I had no idea what effect I was having on you." Victoria reached for Zoë's pyjama jacket and began, with shaking hands, to unbutton it. "Please excuse my nervousness. This is new to me. Do any of Miss Georgetta's lectures provide suitable guidance for this situation?" 

Zoë cautiously began to unlace Victoria's nightdress. "She says to relax and trust to instinct. I'm not very good with instincts." 

Victoria shivered with guilty anticipation. "Then we shall just have to manage as best we can." 

⁂

The beds that British Railways had installed in 'Coral' were no larger than the bed in Victoria's flat. Fortunately, Zoë and Victoria, their desires finally sated, were well practised at both fitting into a bed designed for one. 

"I think Danny was right after all," Zoë murmured. Victoria couldn't see her face, owing to the relative positions of their bodies, but she sounded as if she was smiling from ear to ear. "I really needed to get laid. What about you?" 

"It gave me very great pleasure," Victoria admitted. "But now I feel... guilty. That I must be a wicked person to enjoy doing such things." 

Zoë groped for Victoria's hand, found it, and squeezed it. "You're not a wicked person. It isn't wrong to get pleasure out of sex." 

"I might _think_ as you, but I cannot stop myself _feeling_ guilty. How do you feel?" 

"Sweaty, sticky, unhygienic and undignified," Zoë said. "It was disgusting and biological and I loved every second of it." 

Victoria groaned. "I could tell. It was as if my touch transformed you into a Maenad. I am utterly exhausted." 

"'Maenad,'" Zoë recited, as if by rote. "'A female follower of Dionysus, god of wine, associated with divine possession and frenzied rites.' Was I really frenzied?" 

"I fear so. Parts of me I dare not name are still aching." 

"You gave as good as you got. Take it from me." 

"I did?" Victoria sounded contrite. "I thought I must be hurting you, but you asked me not to stop. In fact, you begged me." 

"Well, I think I got a bit carried away." Zoë shifted her position slightly. "Oooh. That stings. It serves me right for being a Maenad, I suppose. We'd better take it easy tomorrow." 

"I have had quite enough of castles," Victoria said firmly. "Suppose, tomorrow, we take the train to Swanage and visit the beach?" 

"As long as you don't get any bright ideas about bouncy happy funtimes in the surf," Zoë said. 

Victoria laughed, then blushed as as the implication of Zoë's remark sank in. "You knew I had watched that video?" 

"I'll have to explain browser history to you at some point, won't I? Anyway, why shouldn't you watch it?" 

"It would be improper..." Victoria tailed off, realising that after the earth-shaking activities she and Zoë had just been engaging in, the impropriety of watching a video scarcely registered on the Richter scale. "Anyway, no more treasure maps. No more ninefold keys. And no more nightmares." 

"I can't make any promises about the nightmares," Zoë said. "I think, after what we've seen travelling with the Doctor, we won't be able to avoid them." 

Victoria gathered the strength to pull Zoë into a tight embrace. "But at least now, we won't have to face them on our own."


End file.
